Country Club Swing
by R. A. Xip
Summary: Thanks to a painful encounter with a tennis ball, Scout learns something about Miss Pauling he might never have known.


"We can't go on togeth-huhh! With suspicious minds…_hhaahh, ah!" _

Scout sang fervently, wasting all his breath on Elvis Presley's legendary song lyrics and finding himself winded a minute later. He slowed his run to catch a lungful of air. The sun was up, but the basin they were stationed in cast most of the valley in a shadow until late morning. To him, this was the best time to jog because the shade was still cool.

Badwater basin, it was called. The only thing to break up the sandy, uneven terrain were groups of boulders, cactus, or sagebrush. TF Industries had taken advantage of the land to strategically build a map here, snaking around the railroad tracks that carried the bomb carts.

The dryness didn't bother Scout much aside from the fact that he would frequently wake up with nosebleeds and that he found himself needing to drink almost twice his normal amount of water. So, in essence, it did bother him. If he were going to get in a decent run, he would have to find a hose or something before he went beyond the fence.

He jogged along the track, breathing to the time of his Suspicious Minds tune. It took him up and over some tiny hills and around a couple corners of the looming cement buildings that defined the map.

Scout loved the hard impact that his feet made with the ground, and he loved the split second of weightlessness when both feet were suspended in air. There was a comfort in the subtle jarring effect it had on his skeleton, the stretch of muscle, and the flying feeling it gave when everything came together. The noise of his own shoes on the gravel and sandy dirt filled his skull.

As he continued down the track, another sound, away from him, reached Scout's ears. A hollow _Whap, thuck. Whap, thuck. Whap. _

The _thuck_ could mean only one thing: a ball hitting a wall. And the only thing that made balls better were bases. He made a beeline for the source of the noise.

On this side, the dirt ended where the track entered the cement court where bombcarts were to be deployed. Scout stood at the top of the slope and stopped. This was deep in the heart of enemy territory, and while the first round didn't start for another two hours, he had learned the hard way that no provocation was good provocation.

A few tennis balls dotted the ground near Miss Pauling's duffel bag that sat several yards away from her. She had her back to him, engaged in hitting one against the wall again, and again, and again. The ball deflected every hit, requiring her to dart and cut to maintain it.

What he found most intriguing was the white tennis shorts. He might just have to take up tennis if those would be making more appearances.

"Mornin', Miss Pauling," he smiled.

The ball sailed past her, forgotten, as she spun around in surprise. Her ponytail flipped to the front of her shoulder. She lowered the racket. "Scout," she greeted him, cordial as always.

He began the descent down into the court, hands in his slacks pockets. "You didn't ever think to tell me you played tennis, Miss P. That's… that's _cool."_

"How long have you been up there?" There was something very different about her face, and it wasn't the ponytail. Scout knew he was staring, but she was used to it by now.

"Oh, 'bout a minute. I was runnin'. You know, cause I do that when I wake up. Say, what's different about you? I can't place it."

She bent to pick up some fallen tennis balls. "It's my glasses."

"Whoa! Boy, did I miss that one. I don't think I've ever seen you without them." She straightened, and he was close enough to see her clearly, see her full cheeks and pink lips. Her unobscured eyelashes were short and soft under eyelids the color of a moth's wings.

Letting out a low whistle, he said "You're gorgeous, you know that?"

Pauling turned and walked to her duffel bag to retrieve a bottle of water. "Don't let me keep you from your jog."

"Well, the truth is, I was looking for a spicket or something to get a drink, and I thought there might be one up here near the REDs, wow, those are some nice legs you've got, do you play a lot?"

This time, she actually looked at him when she replied, another ball in her hand and ready to throw. "I don't play as much as I used to. If I'm honest, I haven't had a real match since high school. But it's nice when I have time, which is not very often."

Scout took the ball from her hands and played with it, bouncing it a couple times. "So you learned in school, huh? Are those shorts a standard issue?"

"No, it was my mother." She pursed her lips in a wry smile. "She was president of the local country club."

"Oh, so the truth comes out! You're _that_ kinda girl! Looks like I'm in over my head!" Scout pulled his best smirk and bounced the ball up to his nose.

"If my career choice in the assassination and espionage business is any indicator, I won't be returning to another poolside for a long, long time." Miss Pauling chose a different ball, tossed it in the air, and sent it flying. _Whap, thuck._

Scout watched her hit back and forth several more times. He considered the one in his own hand. Then, winding up, he pitched a perfect fastball smack on the square in front of him. The sound reverberated off the stone of the tall walls and echoed until it was lost in the desert air.

Miss Pauling didn't stop, but she did look at him, an unreadable expression on her face. Humming, he scooped up another ball and threw again, pretending not to notice, but flexing just in case.

Another one, two, three minutes passed. The rhythm of Pauling's steady hits was interrupted only by Scout's sporadic pitching. From the corner of his eye, Scout watched her move, ponytail swinging and her narrow shoulders skillfully controlling the racket.

"Elvis, huh?" She panted.

"Huh?"

"You're humming one of his songs, aren't you?" _Whap, thuck_. That swing was more forceful.

He followed through on another pitch, then said, "Yeah, my oldest brother really liked him. If the radio wasn't on a Red Sox game, it was playing something from Elvis Presley. He's a funny lookin' guy, if you ask me, but his songs were catchy." Only one more ball was near him; he focused on the wall and reared up for a curveball. "Don't you think?"

He was about to uncoil when, without warning, something suddenly rammed into his eye socket. The force of it was like a blunt bullet. Both eyes squeezed shut, he forgot all about his curveball and clutched his face, doubled over. "HUAHG!"

Immediately he heard the clatter of her racket on the ground and the shuffle of her shoes. Her voice was right next to his ear as she said "Are you okay?! I'm so sorry!"

Eyes watering and nerves screaming, he grimaced and stayed bent, able to do nothing but let his face scrunch. After another moment his mind registered what he had just heard.

Scout struggled to open his other eye, seeing only a blurry vision of her standing over him. "What did you just say?"

"Are you okay?"

"No, no, hang on a sec!" He righted himself, one hand still covering his face. "Say 'I'm sorry_' _ again, just like you did before!"

"Er. Well, I _am_ sorry," she said.

"Miss P, you have an ACCENT!"

She leaned back, abruptly. "Excuse me?"

By now he was grinning and grinning and there was no stopping it. "Here I was thinking you were all left out, but looks like I was wrong! And I know where that's from, too, cause we get all kinds of weird accents in Boston."

"It's not an accent," she shot.

"Sor-rhee," he drawled. "That's how I say it. Sorry. But YOU, you said it 'sah-ree'. All this time I've been askin' ya where you're from and you wouldn't tell me, and now I know! Ho ho ho ho!"

"It's not an accent," she repeated.

"Min-eh-sooooh-da, eh?" It was too much, and he finally broke out in gut-wrenching laughter. "Wait 'till the guys hear about this! _Min-eh-sooooh-da!_"

She tried one more time. "It's not-!" Then, she sighed. "It's mostly gone anyway."

"What, you ain't ashamed of it, are you?" He practically wheezed while laughing, and went on to continue mangling the dialect. "_Plenty a' reeesin's to be proud, doncha know!"_

The thought of Miss Pauling saying "eh?" after a sentence was priceless. Scout would pay to see that. Actually, there were a lot of things he would pay to see her do, but this was high up there. Giving up, she knelt and starting packing her equipment. "How did you manage to hide that?" He asked.

"It's not hard, especially when you consider it wasn't that thick in the first place."

"But still. That's real cute."

Miss Pauling set her jaw like she was trying not to respond. One more look at Scout, and she finally laughed a little. "Your face is a mess." She dug into her bag and placed something in his long fingers, stood up, slung the bag over her shoulder and turned to leave.

Her hair caught some of the sun, now clearing the plateau. It would soon be blistering hot. But Scout had her cold water bottle with him, and it both soothed his eye and quenched his thirst. He would return it later, but for now, it was something like a good luck charm.


End file.
